Albert Barone was a first generation American, whose parents arrived from Italy in 1902. This is a story about his struggle for acceptance and respect in America. It is also about Albert's son and his love of his father and motorcycling. Though Albert is gone now and the bikes are no longer with us, this story will stay with you forever. The following is a detail history of the first ever BSA Rocket Gold Star in America and how this motorcycle changed the lives of all it touched.

Motorcycling in the Ohio Valley in the Early 1960's

It's the early 1960's in South Eastern Ohio. Nearby towns included Wheeling, Steubenville and Pittsburgh. It was these coal and steel river towns that provided employment for many first and second generation immigrants from Ireland, England and all of Europe.

In the world of motorcycling, Japanese motorcycles are all mopeds, BMW's are stately touring bikes with odd Earles front ends and Ducati Twins are a decade away from being released.

Horex, Vincent, Enfield, NSU and Indians are still seen, but a one time sighting each summer is normal. It really is an all Harley world in Belmont County, Ohio with the exception of the occasional Triumph, BSA or Norton.

In my hometown of Flushing, there are thirty or so Harleys; a lone Vincent in nearby Morristown, an Ariel Square Four in Bethesda and a host of Triumphs and BSA's in Steubenville. Cushman Super Eagles and Lambretta scooters are numerous, but even in the small displacement classes, it is Harley's Hummer that out numbers all the others combined.

Deshongs Triumph in Steubenville (rated a two light bulb shop by most) and a small garage in Mingo Junction that sells Nortons (rated one half light bulb) are the sole source of non-Harley bikes, literature and encouragement in the area.

My personal situation was a typical for a Senior in high school. I played most of the sports and spent an equal amount of time pursuing girls in all the nearby towns while riding my Lambretta 125.

The Lambretta - Chapter One on the Way to the RGS

Lambretta scooters were made in Italy. Mine was a three speed with a drive shaft and painted a handsome white. It was also fun to ride and sure beat walking from town to town for evening meetings with girls.

The Lambretta 125s major flaw was not being able to pull the Harley Hummers on long, level straight roads... a situation my dad would not accept or tolerate. "How could a Lambretta not be faster than a Hummer?" my dad would utter over and over again in Italian. Italians and Irish in particular were not held in high esteem in the Ohio Valley at that time and having the Lambretta not being faster than an American bike or scooter soon became a matter of personal pride and obsession for my father.

One winter day a box arrived from Italy. It was the first package I had ever seen mailed from overseas. This small package would change my life forever by being the first link of the chain starting my interest in motorcycles. Having been sworn to secrecy, I was allowed to view the contents of the box. It was a small oval metal object, finned on one side and highly polished on the other. There was a single sheet of paper enclosed with small drawings and the writing was Italian not English. "What was it Dad?" I asked.

"A racing head for the Lambretta!" dad proudly proclaimed. "This will put those Harley Hummers in their place, once and for all. No way an Italian scooter was going to get beat by any Harley Hummer" he repeated.

The short version of what happened is the following spring was that the Lambretta picked up 9 mph, topped out at 65 mph on the Donnerville straight and flat out left every Harley Hummer and Cushman Super Eagle in the county.

Parent "Bike Wars" - Chapter Two on the Way to the RGS

What followed though was a full scale parents "bike war" that would last two years. Retaliation from the parents that owned the Hummers took a while to happen, but was decisive when it did as two Harley CH's were purchased that fall. The CH was a rowdy, mean machine that was debatably the fastest stock machine available in 1960.

The "hopped up" Lambrettas fate was sealed and it was quietly sold during the winter. Dad consoled me "we'll put the money away for something special." I believed him, because he had that same little smile I saw when he opened the box from Italy containing the Lambretta "racing head".

Near Christmas, I was up in the attic looking for ornaments and under the bed in my parents room I spotted some motorcycle magazines from England and Italy. I had strong visions of a new BSA Super Rocket. Christmas day brought a jacket and a nice time, but no mention of a motorcycle until our baseball coach stopped for a visit. During his stay, he casually mentioned considering instituting a new rule for the upcoming season "not allowing anyone owing a motorcycle to play on the baseball team." Mother agreed saying "motorbikes would never be allowed in the family as long as she was here". Dad did not respond. My motorcycle outlook went from optimistic to impossible in one day.

English Baseball Shoes

Late one evening in the spring my sister handed me the phone saying the caller was Mr. Bryant from Columbus. Mr. Bryant asked my height, weight and my shoe size. "Why" I responded? "Your dad asked me to hand make you a special pair of baseball shoes." he responded. Next evening at supper I asked dad about the shoes and he simply said "yes, the shoes...we'll go to Columbus to pick them up next week." "Columbus", mom exclaimed! "Yes, only person that could do the job I needed done", dad said as he finished his salad.

Not knowing anyone that had ever been to Columbus, the speculation was it would be at least a three hour trip on the new Interstate. Mom packed a huge picnic basket for us, but to me the trip did seem to last forever as dad smoked the entire trip and I was sick when we drove through Groveport. "Look a motorcycle shop, want to stop here and take a break" he said. "Great, I need to get out of the car", I replied.

It was a BSA shop and much nicer than any English bike shop I had ever seen before, even qualifying for the coveted 10 light bulb rating. We walked in and were greeted by an older man with a light hair and a rosy complexion who introduced himself as "Red" He immediately talked to dad and they went into the back shop. Upon returning Red asked me to follow him and check something out .

"What do you think", dad said? I had never seen anything like it before even in pictures and could not respond. What could you say about a motorcycle ten foot long with knobbies and a four foot long swing arm. Red sensed my bewilderment and proudly said "Number one hill climber on the East Coast, you know..."

No one said anything for a while, then Red. looking at me, said "your dad called one night and told me you had a problem with Harley CH's in your little town on the river and we thought you might be interested in this"...as he lifted the cover off a BSA Gold Star Road Racer.

The BSA Gold Star Road Racer

It was beautiful and unlike anything I had ever seen before except in magazine race photos. Large gas tank, low bars, megaphone, single seat, alloy rims and even the safety wiring had that mean, purposeful look. Close examination revealed no visible ignition or speedometer, but a multitude of adjustments on the handlebars. The worn Technical Inspection Sticker from Daytona was testimony that this bike had been there at worst and a maybe even earned a rostrum position at best.

"You won't need any keys, I sort of figure if someone can start it, they can have it" Red said, as he belted out a healthy laugh. "You won't need any speedometer either, with those CH's behind you all the time, why would you care how fast you're going?"

"This is mine dad?" I asked. "Yes, if it does what Red promised and you like it." "What about lights?" I asked them both. "Slim will have them on in a second for you..just don't worry." dad replied. Slim assembled the head and tail lights. He then tested everything to make sure it all worked.

"Now boy, pay attention here and we'll go over how to start this bad guy," Slim said. I listened, but really did not understand all the new terms like compression release and spark retard, but dad just nodded his head and kept saying "OK". As Slim walked over to open the shop outside door, he told us about redoing the motor and keeping the revs down to 3500 for at least 5 tanks of gas.

Slim set all the controls and with one kick the Gold Star fired; exploded actually to be more accurate. Windows in the back of the shop rattled and dad and I both stuffed our hands over our ears. Dad had that special smile again, only much broader than ever before. Slim warmed the bike up and finally handed it to me and just said "this is so much different than anything you have ever ridden before nothing I can tell you will help." "Just do the best you can and if you stall it, don't call us" Slim said. I noticed for the first time he had his own version of "the smile".

The racer stalled instantly when I let the clutch out the first time. Slim restarted it. Stalled again. Finally, on the third try I was heading down the road and into town. Into town.... I screamed, silently inside my half helmet!!! Why did I turn this direction !!! The Goldie responded to my sudden U-Turn decision with slow, strained low rpm exhaust thuds and massive front wheel lurches. Finally, I was headed out of town the opposite direction.

The Test Ride

I waved to Red, Slim and my dad as I went by the BSA shop. The road cleared and the bike settled down to a constant 3000 rpm in third. I had time to think about what was happening. The excitement of it all, thrill and pride in my father suddenly all became just too much. Five miles out of town, I pulled over to the side of the road and cried.

As I reached for the shop rag Slim left in the crevice at the rear of the tank, the racer stalled again. My small grin lengthened to "the smile" just like dads when he opened the box from Italy.

I coasted down the hill, dropped the clutch and the Goldie slowly accelerated away. My thoughts were "this will change everything." How little did I know how much this day really would change the social side of my life forever, because from this point forward most of my life long friends would be motorcyclists.

Stopping again on another hill, I slipped the Goldie on the stand and walked away to view it at a distance. True the CH's were brutal looking machines, but they did not possess the pure functional purpose of design of the Gold Star Road Racer.

No instrumentation frills, just a tach. The massive cylinder, carb intake, swept back exhaust and megaphone were due warning to uncommitted possible buyers and other bike riders that this bike was serious. It was all I could ever wished for and more. I sat down along side the road, stared at the racer and cried again.

Another successful bump start down the hill and "we" headed back to the dealer. Power impressions were not favorable as I short shifted the bike at 3500 rpm just like Slim said; but we would deal with this after the motor was broken in if it was really a problem. Handling was slow at the modest pace I was riding. Again, I hoped this would come around at higher speeds, after all the bike still displayed that faded Daytona Technical Inspection Sticker. All so new compared to the Lambretta, so wonderful, so unbelievable and all too soon I was back at the BSA shop.

As I pulled in to the dealers parking lot, no one showed the slightest interest that I had survived my first Gold Star ride. Everything had simply returned just the way it was before we arrived. A customer pulled in on a new Super Rocket and did not acknowledge the Gold Star or me as he walked into the shop. Dad came out of the shop and read the starting instruction to me from a piece of paper Red had given him. He also had an owners manual, shop manual, racing number plate set, a small box of jets and ignition parts.

Slim followed with the stock muffler, stock tank, new racing rear tire and a set of 15 spare sprockets including the "Isle of Man" gearing.

After loading the Olds with the spares, Slim checked the oil level and primary chain tension a final time. He topped off of the gas tank from a racing fuel filler and concluded "your as ready as you'll ever be kid". He grabbed my arm said slowly "son, there's no Harley that you'll ever have to worry about, but if you really want to hurt them, keep'em on the back roads in the turns". Slim set the rear shock springs to the weight I told Red on the phone, then started the Goldie for the last time. We were ready for the journey home.

Homeward Bound

It finally occurred to me there was never a question of whether or not we were going to do this. After all the planning he had done over the winter dad had no options, nor did he want any. Dad looked at me and said "ready to go home" and at that moment I realized this was better than a dream and I was to ride the Goldie the 120 miles home. This was really happening.

I asked him "what about the baseball shoes?" "Maybe next year," he replied. We both laughed.

Traffic in Groveport was not a problem on my second ride; just kept blipping the throttle so the racer didn't stall. I checked myself out in the reflections of the store window and liked what I saw. "We" looked like the road racing photos I had seen in the English magazines and I was happy.

On the interstate the Goldie felt a little less intimidating. As each power pulse moved through the entire bike, I just felt, this bike would never let me down. The tack moved up in down in jerky movements rather than a smooth sweeping arc. The little bar end mirror did warn of something behind and dads 1955 Olds soon became recognizable from the other vehicles as the large "white blur." Children would wave as their parents cars passed and I waved back. I was proud Albert Barone was my father and happy he was here with me.

The new Interstate exited traffic into Zanesville as it started to rain. A policeman waved me over to him with his night stick at the main red light in town. Dad parked the Olds and the policeman walked up and asked if he could talk to us about..... the BSA. Dad and I exchanged looks and both said simultaneously..."sure".

No hill to coast down and let the clutch out this time. Could it be worse than a kick start in the rain? Starting instructions dad had written down were no avail and the next kick resulted in Gold Star dealing real punishment by crushing my arch through heavy logging boots. Finally, the policeman said he had seen "them" started at races by someone pushing and the rider letting the clutch out in third gear, as he jumped on the seat.

First attempt resulted in a ten foot skid mark as the policeman and dad had to take a breather from pushing and rest. Dad said "pull the bike back until it stops itself, then pull the compression lever in and kick the bike over just a little and we'll try it again" He got on the Gold Star and did all the adjustments and next push bump start try it started immediately. The policeman wiped his brow and waved goodbye. It was the first and last time dad would ever sit on the seat of the Gold Star.

The remaining miles home were without event, but I just could not resist a downshift to third and a brief spin to 4500 rpm as I passed a truck up a long hill. Still, the Goldie did not seem like a road racer or world beater, but sure was a major step up from the Lambretta.

The ride through town went unnoticed by all and when we reached the house Dad told me to take the bike down back "behind the garage" and clean and wax it, while he went in to talk to "Grace" ....(my mother).

Surprisingly, mom came out of the house to view the Goldie and pronounced it "pretty for a motorbike", then left to check the her flower garden, as if nothing special had happened.

And In This Corner. . . .

A few minutes later one of the neighbors came over to visit with Dad. Bud was the brother of one of the parents that bought their son a CH. He studied the Gold Star front to back and finally said the infamous, "start it up"

During lunch dad break on the interstate dad and I had gone over the starting drill. I knew it off by heart by now. Dad walked to the back of the bike explaining all the racers details. Bud followed along and just listened. I lunged down on the kick start and surprisingly given the events in Zanesville with the policeman just a few short hours ago....the Goldie started first kick. The blast from the megaphone had Buds cap air born and into the garden ten feet away. Dad laughed. Bud picked his hat up and muttered a long "whoaaaa."

Raaa Raaaaaa; Raaaaa Raaaaaaaa; Raaaaa Raaaaaaaa... the note from open megaphone immediately froze all human and animal movement throughout the neighborhood. For a brief moment in time after the engine stopped... it was totally quiet unlike anytime before. Nearby neighbors commented years later they had been really been struck deaf for a few minutes by the Goldie that afternoon. Mom rushed out of the house fearing we all had been injured or worse.

The "line in the sand" had been drawn, and it had the round Gold Star emblem in the middle.

Details

According to Dad, we still had some big problems to fix before the racer could be ridden everyday. He had calculated the gearing was just too "tall" for the hills of South Eastern Ohio and my weight .... whatever that meant.

Actually, what this really meant was that "we" were going to spend at least two evenings in the garage together fixing the problems. Spending time with my father while he worked on any mechanical project was dangerous for bystanders and very boring since no one was allowed to touch anything except occasionally hand him a tool. "Stupid Limeys" became the second most frequently used term at our house until all the racers problems were fixed to his satisfaction.

The gearing was easy and I thought we would be ready early, but next came the "hand made" primary gasket. Dad declared this necessary because of the oil all over floor of the garage. He said loudly "the old gasket was no thicker than cigarette paper, stupid limeys." With the touch of a true craftsman and perfectionist, he made a gasket from material he brought home from the dragline. The next evening the floor had no new oil and he BSA primary held oil for the first time ever.

I hand polished all the aluminum on the cases and the rims with a gritty paste dad made up and the results were worth the hard work. He checked the timing, set the valves and checked the float height...again all terms I did not understand. I lubed the BSAs "limey bicycle cables" using a little trick he showed me with a balloon filled with oil.

The word of the BSA Road Racer spread rapidly and was the talk of the town. The Harley guys did not ask any questions nor acknowledge interest, but the fact the Gold Star was not ridden two weeks after it was purchased started some nasty rumors that it actually did not run at all..

Take That

Two Saturdays after the trip to Columbus, the racer was wheeled out of the garage for all to see. The CH guys stopped and just stared. Dad smiled a lot that day.

The following week, I went to the other side of town to visit a friend of mine. In front of the store near where he lived was Joe Campanizzi and his 1952 Harley K.

Joe was not one of the town Harley intimidators, but sort of a short, heavy white version of Flip Wilson. "Seems to sound a bit slow when you go by" Joe said. " I have to break the motor in before going any faster," I responded.

"How much longer before its broke in" he asked. "After this tank of gas in run through it will be ready " I said. "What's one gallon gas, it either runs or it doesn't ...go on up the road and run her past so I can see what she'll do" he said to me and the small crowd that had gathered in front of the store. I took the Goldie up the road and turned around then waved to him. He half raised his hand and casually motioned it toward him.

I let the clutch out slow and then hit the throttle wide open. The Goldie almost jerked the bars out of my hands and the megaphone blared. As I speed shifted into second and the front got just a little light. A speed shift to third had the Goldie going way too fast as we sped past Joe, his mouth now ajar with a cigarette stuck motionless to his lower lip. A little further down the road, I had to let off for the train crossing......... raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. The Goldie slowed and all was finally quiet and normal once again.

I turned around, then waved to Joe as I rode by. No need to stop, nothing else to say. He had not moved facial muscle since the first time I went by a few minutes before.... just stared... he knew everything he had ever known about motorcycles had all just changed.

I took a tour around town and headed home only to pull in the driveway just as Sheriff Todd was leaving. "Think we should be just a little more careful and not let something like that to happen again," dad said. The smile was not present and the matter was never mentioned again.

and ...Take That

Later that month I rode to the corner downtown where the Harley guys kept watch in the evenings and stopped to talk everyone. This really was not an "us versus them deal" because some of the Harley guys were fathers of friends of mine and a few even played football on the high school team with me. At dusk, one of the old 74's fired off a foot long fire beam out of the exhaust as it was being started. Everyone laughed, good trick, but as we were all to find out soon; not good enough.

I thought about drifting down town hill for the easy bump start, but with all the Harley guys watching, a better strategy would be to pray and go for the kick start, then roar up through town as my parting shot.

All levers set, the racer saved the best to last and shot a two foot long flame out the GP carburetor throat as the kick starter was run through. Quite the sight at dusk that night to be sure. Shocked, we all were, but I acted as if it was planned just to top the routine Harley exhaust flame trick. It worked almost too effectively, as I pretended to tickle the float, but actually was checking the inside leg of my jeans for fire damage or worse. Again, all was silent in the presence of the Gold Star Racer.

Upon departing, I starting off in second and gradually built the revs all the way through town with the shift to third held off until the Goldie and I peaked the long hill and headed home.

The Slide on Bye

I realized the more I rode with the CH's that if I was make the "big" pass it could not be on a long straight away. Though I was confident that I could pass and keep slightly in front, this it was not the convincing move that would put the Harleys in their place once and for all. What I was looking for was a situation where the CH's were accelerating, but had to slow for the first of many turns. This would favor the Goldie, just like Slim had told us when we picked the bike up in Groveport .

That weekend on a ride, the opportunity came as a large truck slowed us as we headed out of of New Athens toward Cadiz. The short straight where we passed the truck was followed by fifty or so hard and difficult turns. The CH's passed the truck and I passed the truck and them at the same time. The Goldie was now on full song and in front heading into the miles of turns. We were on plan, but could we stay ahead?

Brake hard, then downshift....raaaaaaaaaaaaa... megaphone blaring, at the apex of the first turn, its was wide open again to the next turn. The Goldie did not waiver from the chosen lines, all felt perfect. Brake hard, then downshift....raaaaaaaaaaaaa... megaphone blaring, at the apex of the second turn, its was wide open again and into turn three. I could still faintly hear the CH's, but did not have time to check the mirror.

Three miles later, I was finally able to glance back to see the CH's about a half mile back, but still at speed trying to cut the ever increasing distance between us. No Harley that day would get past not even the Orange and Black factory road racers. I caught the blur of the worn Daytona Inspection Sticker still on the Goldie going into the last turn and thought no matter what happened there old friend, you were the winner here today. The big "pass" had been made and the parents bike war was over in five short miles.

I pulled into the water hole outside Cadiz, pushed my goggles back and took my off my half helmet. My heart was still beating fast and just for a brief moment it was difficult to breathe normally. All was quiet for a minute or so and finally I could hear the CH's far in the distance. When the CH's finally arrived the Goldie was parked and I was stretched out under a tree, as if I had been there a week or so, even though it had only been a couple of minutes. We all shared a cool drink of water; the Goldie was center stage, as all the Harley riders gathered to take a real good look for the first time.

Years later, I realized nothing in life would awaken all my senses like that ride. It was the third Gold Star strike on the Harleys that summer, this game was over and all the Harley guys knew it.

The Invitation

Soon after the big "pass," most of the Harley riders started waving as they rode by and later an invitation was extended to ride with them to the Charity Newsie Nationals in Columbus.

Riding with thirty Harleys to Columbus was not near the top on my list of "magic moments" I had hoped for or dreamed about. Though the racer was hard to start it was reliable enough to make the trip this could not be said for the 74's. I had visions of at least five of them breaking down on the way to Columbus and the entire trip taking three days and not the three hours it took us to get home from the BSA shop a few short months ago.

Leader for the ride to the National was Milford Humphrey on his 1935 Harley equipped with handlebar streamers and studded leather saddlebags. Milford was a nice man in his mid-70s who always came up and patted me on the back, if I had a good football game.

After much consideration I decided to go.... and my new girlfriend Claudia was able to convince her parents somehow that "everything would be all right," which unfortunately was not to be. She was two years younger than me, nearly 16, a wonderful person, and beautiful beyond words (imagine Elizabeth Taylor when she was young, except taller). I was very nervous about something, actually anything happening to her at the races, because I was starting to really care for her.

Not letting anything to chance I decided to "over prepare" and ride to Deshongs in Steubenville to have the bike checked and have the valves set. He told me the valves should be set cold, but if I waited a few hours he could do it. Waiting the time to have the valves set turned out to be one of the most unfortunate decisions I ever made.

The next day, I concluded the over preparations when Claudia and I installed the the Isle of Man 23 tooth front sprocket gearing for the trip to the races. The test ride revealed a first gear that would top out at near 65 plus mph, but the racer required heavy clutch slipping to get underway and was not able to pull fourth unless going downhill.

I decided to leave the "tall" gearing in place just in case the Harleys decided to make a break for it on the Interstate. I also did not want to risk testing Claudias patience with another day in the garage by asking her to help me again reinstall the stock front sprocket since we had just met the month before.

The departure was set for 9:00 am Sunday and my plan was to drive the car over to pick up Claudia and dad would check the Goldie out one last time. Saturday was spent polishing and waxing. Sunday morning finally arrived and as I was packing my small trip bag on the back fender I noticed the rear tire was flat. "Two hours for before departure and a flat...no way to get it fixed in time, in fact, how does the back wheel even come off?" I thought.

I ran into the house and frantically scanned the owners manual. A break, the racer had a quick change rear that does not require the chain to be split. By this time dad was up and involved. The tire and rim were off in moments and dad walked to the gas station with the wheel assembly as I headed off in the Olds to pick up Claudia.

She never looked better and as we parted her dad followed us to the car and said "had a real bike at one time in the 30's you know...an Indian." We jumped in the Olds and were back home in time to see the back wheel on and dad warming up the Gold Star. "Don't let anyone kidnap her," he said. With that we headed out to the meeting place at Dick Harris's house and the final leg of the journey to the first Rocket Gold Star in America.

The Big Ride to the Charity Newsies National

In the minutes before departing I felt like I belonged (even though the Gold Star was the only non-Harley in the group) as people I had not talked to or never wanted to talk to made a point of visiting with me. Soon, I realized these were not new found friendships, but rather guys checking out Claudia.

All the "small" bikes were relegated to the rear and once on the Interstate we formed a stagger formation. I rode between the two CH's and my worst fears materialized as Milford kept the pace at a steady 50 mph. Was it going to be a second and third gear ride all the way to Columbus?

Ten miles later we were up to 65 mph, then 75 mph and the Goldie began to feel good. The CH's were turning fast as we hit 80 mph. I gazed forward in the group and I could see Milford's handlebar streamers pointing straight back.

The first 74 pulled over a few miles later, but only one other rider stopped to help. A half hour later we pulled in for gas and were short three more of the "big" bikes.

Milford walked through the ranks surveying his remaining "troops" and stopped by me and said "your are going to see a few other Gold Stars at Columbus, you know". "Great," I replied. "Yep, a few will be in the National, since those guys from the west coast will be here and they like those Brit bikes," he added. I knew all of this from reading the magazines, but also was aware that most of the Harley owners did not get the connection between my Gold Star Road Racer and Sammy Tanners's BSA Gold Star Flat Tracker. This would all change by the end of the day; this and much more.

The Race

Once we were near the track it was an all motorcycle world. Twenty thousand motorcycles and bikers filled the street, the parking area at the track, all restaurants and side streets. At this moment in time, at this place in time, motorcyclists were the majority and we were in control. It was a experience nothing or no one could prepare; it was wonderful and exciting. As we headed toward the bleachers at the race track I could hear the exhaust note of other racing singles on the track. These machines were not sounding "slow."

Once seated, one of the CH guys nudged me and pointed to the track, "looks like your bike, huh." Actually, he was pointing to Dick Mann on the G-50 Matchless, but I did not correct the oversight, after all it actually did "look" like my bike. The Harley racers also sounded good and ran even better. During the finals it was Carroll Resweber on a Harley with the G-50 thirty feet back, lap after lap after lap. By the end of the race program most of our group were very weary hearing and seeing BSA Gold Stars win or be near the front in each race. This day, I was proud of owning a BSA and really proud my bike was a racer. I was sure my dad would be happy also hearing of the Gold Star successes at the race.

By days end, all happiness would be gone.

Homeward Bound Again

On the Interstate on the way home every vehicle for the first twenty or so miles was a motorcycle, then fewer bikes, until finally it was just our group again. It was getting late and at the first gas stop I told Milford we were going home ourselves; I did not trust my lights and really did not want to get Claudia home after dark.

Five miles later the Goldie shook violently as a loud a rifle shot sound pierced the air. It was then I realized the back wheel was locked solid and we were slowly moving into the left lane of the interstate and directly into the path of a semi that was passing. Claudias grip tightened on my waist. This was sheer terror, I calculated all the options and I tried to prepare for being run over by the semi that had been following us for miles and elected just at this moment to pass. "God, Claudia how I could have loved you," I thought. The clutch was in before I could think it and the back wheel was rotating as the semi went by horn blaring just a few feet to our left. A twist of the throttle went unanswered and as we coasted to a stop on shoulder all was silent in the presence of the Gold Star for the last time.

I knew I had done something wrong installing the front sprocket to allow the chain to come off and lock the back wheel. A careless mistake almost had us both dead. We were both alive though and I realized for the first time, whatever the problem, it could be fixed, after all the racer no matter how special to me, was just a machine. Claudia asked me what happened and as we walked to the front of the Gold Star. Looking at the Goldie from the front made me realize it was far more than the primary chain. The case was split vertically nearly eight inches and peering inside the crack we could see the rod was broke in half. The frame was even bent from the stress of case cracking. The decision I made to let Deshongs set the valves when the Goldie was warm earlier in the week almost cost us our lives. Over preparing had almost ended it all.

Help Please...Anyone

Luck was with us because we had amazingly coasted up to a wreck truck that was picking up a car. The driver was friendly and told us he would come back and get us in a half hour or so. As the wreck truck disappeared from sight, our situation became clear, we were stranded with very little money and no way to make the return trip home of one hundred miles. I started worrying about Claudias safety as we sat beside the Interstate and waited for the wreck truck to return.

Soon he was back, the was racer loaded and we were on our way to Columbus again. After a few minutes, he knew our situation and told us "listen, I'll drop you off at the rest area and you should walk around and see if you can find a safe ride home." "Here's my card to prove you did have your bike towed," in case anyone asks. As I shut the door, he whispered softly "look for an older couple it'll be safer for her, tell them your situation, write when your have time and good luck"

We walked back across the Interstate, and into the unknown of the rest area. The first older couple we talked to agreed immediately to help us after she had a few words privately with Claudia. Soon, we were on our way home but the of events this day soon overcame us and we went to sleep in the back of their car.

The older couple left us off at Piedmont Lake (20 miles from home) and I walked across the road and called my father collect. I tried to think of something that could explain all of this away and considered telling him the bike was stolen, but when he answered I could sense the stress in his voice and I just blurted out "the bike blew up, can you please come to Piedmont Lake and pick us up."

The next day, my embarrassment of what happened deepened, but not one of the Harley guys commented over the circumstance. Most were very sympathetic and a few even offered to help rebuild the bike. Dad had made his point during the great "parents bike war" and when I finally told him about the locked back wheel and the semi, we both knew he could and would not help resurrect the racer. I was now on my own with the Goldie and that really was the way it should be.

I wrote a letter to the wreck truck driver, enclosed $20 and advised him I did not know when I could pick up the BSA.

A New Life

I missed the Goldie, but as weeks turned to months it just was something I could not afford to solve and down deep was not sure I wanted to risk another trip home like the one from the Charity Newsies again.

Love and college were my life now and it was not until I hitched a ride to Columbus to visit a friend that I even thought of the racer again and only then because a ride left me off across from a Vincent shop north of Columbus. I decided to stop in and as I told the shop owner of my situation and he asked me for my name and mailing address. A few weeks later I received a note from him telling me he that might "fix" the Goldie if he could keep the remains of the motor.

I was confused, how could he fix the racer and keep the engine? That Saturday, I hitched back to the shop to find out. "Well, its simple" Harry said, "you order a used motor from England and I will install it in exchange for the blown motor." "How much for a used Gold Star motor from England," I said. "$350 plus freight of $60," came the reply. "Harry, I just don't have nor will ever have that amount of money, the entire racer only cost $375", I said.

"Let me think on it, Harry said and I'll drop you another note." I did not hear from him for months and really did not care since I could not afford to fix the racer anyhow. In late October another note from Harry. This one was again vague, but somehow uplifting. Another Saturday 90 mile hitch to and from the Vincent shop was in order, but somehow this time I thought the answer might just be a miracle, after all, if he did not have something positive to tell me why would he want to see me again.

When I walked into the Vincent shop the Goldie was parked in the corner. Harry had went down to get it and paid for the storage. It was dusty, dirty and the motor/frame condition far worse than I had allowed myself to remember.

I could sense Harry watching me as he waited on a customer when I went over and sat on the racer. I asked Harrys wife Sarah for a cloth to clean the dust and she told me "Harrys told me all about you, don't worry, he'll take care of this for you...he promised me he would"

After the customer left Harry asked me "can you come up with $100." "Maybe, well...yes I can, but I will need some time" I replied. "Here's the plan then if you agree," he said. "You order a used two cylinder Rocket engine from Pride and Clarke in England and I will install it and make sure your lights work in exchange for the remains of the Gold Star motor"...what do you think? "OK, great" I said.

"One last thing, we will keep the costs down by using the stock Gold Star silencer you have at home, but you will have to buy the siamese upper exhaust and this will be an extra $15, OK"? "When will you need the money," I asked? I don't need the money at all, Harry said, "you're going to order the motor yourself from Pride and Clarke in England using this address and contact; then have it shipped here and we'll call you when your new bike is done."

I took the address and hitched back to college knowing I did not have a chance to I come up with the $120 to order for the motor and exhaust from England. At least the racer was not at the gas station, stuffed in a corner covered with gas.

I had no other options and could not fix the bike myself. Red and Slim were not interested in helping and even a note to Jody Nicholas the BSA factory rider resulted in the news that no spare motors were available in the USA and worse yet, he confirmed Harry's Gold Star motor price.

The Spaghetti Conspiracy

The response to my note came from Pride and Clarke came via Air Mail about two weeks later and simply said they could supply the following used motors complete with carburetors and alternator via surface shipping. The prices converted from pounds were as follows:

1957 Super Rocket Very Good Condition $105 plus freight of $45
1959 Super Rocket Fair Condition $80 plus freight of $45
1955 BSA 650cc (iron head) $65 plus freight of $45

Siamese Exhaust $22 (no freight charge, will include in motor crate)

How to get the money was the issue. Dad was out of the question and he really did not want me riding a motorcycle now that I was in college. My uncle Vic may help, but then my parents would know what was happening.

Later that week I got my check for home to cover my eats for the next three months and ...I had a plan. The house I was rooming was next to an Italian Restaurant so I went to see the owner and his wife. "Louis, if I eat supper here everyday for the next three months how much would $3.50 Spaghetti diner be, I'll even pay in advance." "Ah, how about $2.25", he said immediately. "Here's my dad's check for the next 90 days and you will owe me $90 after the check clears, sound fair" I said. "Yes it's fair", he said, as he took the check.

A week or so later, I was able to send Pride and Clarke a check for $127 to cover the 1957 Super Rocket engine and Siamese exhaust. I ask them if they would have the freight be billed collect to Harry. Mr. Andrews of Pride and Clarke wrote back and advised me the engine would be shipped collect in two weeks and to allow for a six week delivery.

I was excited, but it was a different feeling from when dad bought the Gold Star in Groveport. I was doing this all myself and the only support I had was from the letters I received from Claudia.

The single spaghetti meal were the only eats I had each day, no breakfast or lunch, but Louis upped the portion and I never seemed to be hungry. I sold some of the stock Gold Star parts to a local dealer for spending money for weekends, but it was the monthly hitches home for good meals and my visits with Claudia that sustained me for the next three months.

The Gold Star matter was quiet until near Christmas when my landlady at college called at home and told me she received a message from "Mr. Harry Vincent, and that he was anxious to see or talk to me." I called Harry from the pay phone in town and told him I would visit as soon as possible. He seemed very anxious and not himself during the brief call, so I promised I be down as soon as I returned to college.

I worked in a mens shop in Wheeling during the holiday period to save money for gifts and the motor shipping charges. I was able to head back to college the following week with about $50. Once back, I decided to continue the spaghetti supper deal, but was worried because for the first time in my life I was having a problem with my weight.

The First BSA Rocket Gold Star in America

I hitched down to the Vincent shop for the third time the first weekend of my return in January. No snow, but temperature in the 30's. The hitch was not without humor though as I had to explain to everyone that picked me up why in the dead of winter, I was carrying the new rear motorcycle tire I got from Red when dad bought the bike.

The Vincent shop was not open, so I had to knock on the front door of Harry and Sarah's house which was close by. Sarah answered the door and followed me into the living room. The warmth was welcome, but it was all the motorcycle trophies and photos that attracted my attention. Sarah "who is this" I asked. "You don't recognize Harry when he was young" she laughed". "Looks a little like you, don't you think?" "Sure does, I said. Harry walked into the room at that time and immediately I knew something was wrong, very wrong...he was so pale, thin and sickly. I knew why he called to ask me to come down as soon as possible now, it did not seem possible that he had become so ill in such a short period of time.

"I hope you will be happy with your Rocket Gold Star," he said. The lock to the front door of the shop was frozen, but we were soon inside. Harry walked over and took the sheet off BSA. The Super Rocket engine was a perfect fit in the Gold Star frame and I thought from the timing side it even looked better. I really liked the stacked rifle logo and the siamese exhaust and the stock Gold Star silencer just looked like the factory had made the bike. The bare primary side did not appear to different from the Gold Star and the front frame tubes which were bowed when the Gold Star engine blew were straight and repainted. The lights worked and the BSA hybrid now even had an ignition key.

Harry put an electric heater close to the new twin so it would start for my ride back to college and we left the shop to have supper. After supper we put the new racing tire on and Harry installed a set of swing arm bushings. "No need for rear wheel steering on this beauty, you know," he said.

I gazed over at the Gold Star engine on the workshop and based on the case damage, simply could not understand what value the motor had for Harry. "Harry, I told you I was short on the freight money I owe you, can I send along over the next few months" I asked. "Sure" he said

The bike started first kick without hassle or effort. I went to the house door to say goodbye to Sarah. "Please take Claudia's class ring as security for the money I owe Harry for the freight, I just don't want him to think I don't appreciated all he has done for me." I handed over the ring, shook her hand, then got on the Gold Star Twin and headed the sixty miles back to college.

The temperature had warmed to near 40 degrees, but it was so cold riding I had to stop every ten miles or so at gas stations to warm up and rest. No talk about how special the Gold Star Twin at these stops, good thing because it was too painful for me to move any body parts or even talk.

Once back to college, I cleared a corner in my landladies shed and covered the bike for the last time until late spring when I decided to surprise everyone and ride it home. Half helmet, goggles, work gloves and my small travel packed tied to the seat were ready and soon I am on my way for the first real trip on the Gold Star Twin. First impressions were of a much smoother and civilized motor, almost too nice compared to the single. Power seemed about the same or just a little better, but the throttle response was so different and civilized. For sure, there was far less gear shifting.

I was disappointed that no one at the gas stops actually noticed the changes from factory specs that had been made to the BSA. Surely, the level of interest in the bike would change when I got home given all the Harley guys were still in town and dad would be happy to see the bike running again; at least I hoped they would.

Homeward Bound For The Final Time

The Gold Star Twins arrival home brought a brief look out the window from dad. In retrospect he never recovered from the life threatening nature of the Gold Star locked wheel/semi incident. Until he died, I think he thought the Gold Star Racer would serve his purpose, then just go away forever. He loved me and was afraid for my safety. We never talked about the new RGS or any other motorcycle ever again.

The Harley guys really did not know or care about the difference between the new two cylinder engine and the old racing single. A few said "thought you blew that thing up last year?" Milford was the sole exception and declared Harrys work a "clean, clean job."

Claudias reaction was one of excitement and happiness. We immediately went for a ride and I soon rediscovered just how great it was to go with her rather than by myself or with the Harley guys. For the next two years the RGS would be our main means of transportation and these hours on the bike with her were the most special times of my life.

The RGS Retires

Two years later, I needed money for my senior year in college and had to sell the RGS. It brought $235 from a man that lived in Belmont who was starting a motorcycle shop. The heavy mileage of the last two years had taken its toll, the beauty was still there but the close up luster had worn thin. This was one tired, but dedicated to the end, motorbike.

A few weeks after this sale and two years after Harry had built the RGS, a motorcycle magazine featured next years BSA models including the "all new" BSA Rocket Gold Star. I smiled.

For collectors, there it is...the first RGS in the United States was not made made by BSA, but rather a craftsman that loved motorcycles and a young kid that loved motorcycling.

It is still out there somewhere hoping to be found, and restored. Let me know when you do find it, I need to sit down beside it just one more time.... and have that last good cry.

E P I L O G

Milford passed away in the mid-70's, but rode his 1935 Harley almost to the end. I visited his son in the late 80's; he still had the bike and it was in perfect condition. Even the streamers and leather saddle bags were still intact. I tried to find a battery for it without success.

In 1993, I stopped in Groveport and Red's BSA shop was now a coin operated laundry and a MacDonalds was across the street. I could not find anyone in town that remembered Red, Slim or the shop.

My dad passed away in the mid-80's. In retrospect, he never recovered from the life threatening nature of the Gold Star locked wheel/semi incident. Once I did see him checking out my 1980 Honda CBX six cylinder and my friends Ducati 750ss Desmo that were parked in the garage during a visit home. That was the last time I saw the "smile" before he passed away .

A few years ago, I was in Belmont and found the old barn the shop was to be in, but it was abandoned. One of neighbors told me that a man was going to start a motorcycle shop there a long time ago but not much came of it. He did remember a bike with a two into one exhaust in the barn at that time; but what really happened to the RGS after I sold it is not known.

For me the memories of those early years will never be old though, all the people I met while owning the BSA have never aged and nothing will be forgotten. I would be first to go......if......you...... could only .....roll back time.......

E P I L O G 2 Riding a Gold Star every day in the early 1960's

Gold Stars were not held in high regard by most motorcyclists in the early 1960's. Only once did anyone ever have enough interest to actually ask me any questions or continue a meaningful discussion about the bike and this man raced Goldies when he lived in England.

The Gold Star was light and solid. Handling was superior to any other bike I had experience with at the time including all Harleys, Vincents, BSA and Triumph twins. Care had to be taken to tighten down the friction damper or severe wobbles and tank slappers would result. I would have liked to have tried the Goldie against the Norton 99 in the turns of Route 9 due to the great magazine reviews the Norton had at the time, but never actually saw one of these Nortons on the road .

The brakes on the Gold Star were terrible, by any modern standard, but not worse than most other bikes of the time. Going fast meant downshifting going into a turn and getting good braking from the motor, then cranking on as hard as possible on the apex. Unlike some modern bikes the Goldie would not get nasty when accelerating out of a turn hard, there was just not enough power.

Most riders in the 60's did not know about cornering at speed and knees out racing style was not to appear for 15 years or so. The Goldie was strong in the tight turns in South East Ohio and was never passed by any other British bike or Harley. It never let me down on the road except for the "blow up" and the only problem I really had was when I cut a replacement full line too long and this pushed the float to the side and the bike would not start. Took me three days to figure it out.

I had only one run in with a newer bike while riding my last Goldie in the late 1970's. The man I worked for while employed at Honeywell in New England had an RD 350. He invited me to go to the motocross races with him. Coming down a ramp onto 495 we had a roll on. All I remember was seeing my rear view mirror filled with blue two stroke exhaust haze as the Goldie pulled away from the the RD 350 in each gear. He was amazed and stunned, I was not surprised.

Over the years, I have had many people asked me to ride their Gold Stars to make sure all was well mechanically. I always have refused. Ownership today no matter how satisfying, can never replace the unrestricted freedom forty years ago of winding the Goldie out to 7200 rpm then speed shifting through each gear without concern of collectabliltiy or damage.

I can understand the anguish, time and money a full restoration takes, but I simply do not have the desire to "plunk" a Goldie around on a ride as if it were a trials bike or to have any "restricted ride" replace the memories I have of riding my Gold Star Racers the way they were intended.

I just returned from the AMA homecoming and was amazed when I saw older people stand in line to have their picture taken beside Gold Stars. I have to wonder where they were in the early 1960's when BSA had to discontinue the bike due to lack of sales.

To the few that rode the Gold Star daily in the 1960's; hauling a Goldie from show to show today and never riding it seems marginally a better fate than my first Gold Star/RGS, but still a terrible injustice to the owner and bike.

Listen to your heart and your Goldie when it tells you "to get it on for a real ride;" it will do you both a wonder of good.

Don't know how..... then stop by my house near Gettysburg.....you ride one of my semi-collectibles and i ride another ....when we get back from this ride; you will understand.

Mike Brown
SE Pennsylvania

717-790-0400 x4331 days
717-790-0401 fax

team222@paonline.com

updated 12/18/99